David Gemmell - Morningstar

‘I want to fight,’ said Raul. ‘Gilbaud Azrek murdered my father and I must avenge him. My soul will not rest until I do.’

‘Then what are you, Raul Raubert?’

‘I am a warrior. A knight. What would you have me say?’

‘What are you?’ repeated Mace. I saw that Scrymgeour and the brothers had entered the shelter and were listening intently. Raul swallowed hard.

‘I am a Highlander,’ he said.

He made as if to kneel but Mace stepped forward, taking him by the arms and pulling him upright. ‘I don’t want men on their knees,’ he said. ‘I want men who will bow the knee to no one.’

It was a fine performance and I could see that the newcomers were all impressed by it. Mace was the very picture of nobility. Astiana smiled softly and shook her head. I caught her eye and we exchanged smiles.

Mace strode from the cabin, calling me to him. ‘Well?’ he asked me, as we moved out of earshot.

‘You were very fine,’ I told him.

‘Yes, I surprised myself. How simple it all is. How people long to be led. I wish I’d discovered it years ago.’

‘What do you plan?’

He turned to me, laying his hand on my shoulder. ‘You began it, Owen. Now I shall finish it. I will gather an army and I will take Ziraccu. After that… who knows? There will be gold and plunder aplenty. I intend to be rich, Owen. Maybe I shall cross the sea to warmer climes, buy a palace. By God, why stop at a palace?’

‘You are mightily pleased with yourself,’ I snapped, ‘but may I remind you that we are still a small band of outlaws, and there is no army as yet.’

‘You don’t see it, do you?’ he responded. The Earl of Arkney was ready to bend his knee to me — an Angostin prince! Oh, I shall raise an army. No doubt of that. Azrek can have no more than five hundred men at Ziraccu. There are ten times that many warriors in the forest. We will sack the city — and then I shall disappear.’

‘Why stop at Ziraccu?’ I said, intending my voice to be mocking. But he did not notice the tone; instead he laughed aloud.

‘One should not be too greedy, my friend. I can win that battle — but once I have, the rebellion will be over. Edmund will march his armies back to the north and crush any who stand in his way. But that will matter nothing, for the Morningstar will be long gone.’

‘And leave behind all those who followed you? Yes, that sounds like you, Jarek Mace. You will not have to see the ropes hanging from every tree, nor the rotting corpses upon them.’

His smile faded. ‘I did not ask these people to make me their hero. I owe them nothing. I owe you nothing.’

‘I agree. But what you said in there was wonderful. No more Angostin overlords, no more serfs and slaves. Merely Highlanders, men judged by their actions and not by their blood. That’s worth righting for, Jarek. That’s worth dying for!’

‘Nothing is worth dying for!’ he stormed. ‘And I’ll tell you why: because nothing ever changes. There will always be kings and there will always be serfs. Edmund has conquered the north — but he will die one day, and there will be other civil wars. And yes, the north will be free, because a Highland Edmund will arise. But nothing will change, Owen. Not for the likes of you and me. Not for Wulf or Ilka. The strongest conquer, the weak suffer. It is the world’s way.’

‘It is the coward’s way!’ I stormed. ‘What Man has made, Man can change. Yes, there have always been despots and tyrants, but equally there have been benevolent rulers, strong men who cared for their people. But if men followed your philosophy of despair they would build nothing. What would be the point of fashioning a home from timber and stone? One day the timbers will rot and the roof fall in. Why learn which herbs will conquer which diseases? We are all going to die anyway. Why teach our children to read? They’ll never be able to change anything!’

For a moment he seemed taken aback, but it was more as a response to the passion of my argument than a result of the argument itself. ‘By God,’ he said, ‘if you could fight like you can talk, you’d be a formidable opponent.’

‘Go ahead, Jarek Mace, mock if you will. It is something you are good at.’

‘I am good at many things, Owen,’ he replied. ‘Keeping myself alive during a bloody war is but one of my talents. Being a hard man to kill is another. Now I am playing this game of yours to the best of my ability. Do not ask for more, for there is no more to give. I care nothing for Angostins. And I am not even a Highlander, I am a low-born Ikenas. They want to make me Rabain reborn, so be it! They want to follow me to the gates of Hell, well, let them. All I want is to see Azrek dead and to have some gold to spend. Is that so bad?’

‘You could be King,’ I said softly. ‘Can’t you see that? The people will rise in their thousands.’

‘And Edmund will crush them,’ he said, hammering his fist into the palm of his left hand for emphasis.

The light was beginning to fail and we walked back towards the shelter.

I thought I saw a shadow move at the edge of my vision, but when I swung round there was nothing to see. And night flowed over the clearing, the sky thick with cloud which covered the moon and stars.

I have discovered in my long life that there are many words and phrases which have more power than any spell of magick. The most well-known of these is, of course, I love you. But by far the most deadly is, if only.

For these two words can strip a man’s strength, his courage and his confidence. They become the father of regret and anguish and pain. A man kneels by his dead children in a plague village and thinks, ‘If only we had journeyed south in the summer.’ A farmer gazes at his rain-ruined crop and believes he would have been a rich man if only he had bred horses instead. Lives are ruled by if only.

I have my father to thank for being free of the spell cast by these two words.

‘Foolish regret weighs more than iron,’ he would say. ‘Every man alive makes mistakes; that’s how he learns. Only the weakling talks of life’s unfairness, or claims he is jinxed by bad luck. The strong man shrugs his shoulders and walks on.’

I remember one winter evening, as we were gathered around the fire, when one of my brothers, Braife, was crying because his favourite hound had been killed in a fight with wolves. He was weeping not just because of the loss, but because he had chosen to carry a spear that day and not a bow. With the bow, he said, he might have driven the wolves back.

‘Most likely,’ agreed Aubertain, ‘but you weren’t carrying the bow. It was not even a mistake, nor yet an error of judgement. You were hunting boar, and for that a man needs a long spear. Everything you did was correct, but the dog died. When I was a young knight in the Overseas War I had a friend called Ranuld, a bright, witty, shining man. We were riding together through a forest, hunting deer, when he suggested trying to the east. I maintained the deer would be in the west — and it was to the west that we rode. We had travelled no more than a mile when a band of robbers leapt from hiding in the undergrowth. We drove them off, of course, killing three, but when they had gone Ranuld fell from his horse. He had a deep dagger wound in his chest, and it had pierced the lung. He died in my arms then. I screamed my bitterness to the heavens and I regret his death to this day, but not with guilt. I chose the west because the forest was more dense there and the ground was low, indicating water and good feed for deer. It was not my fault that he died. Nor was it your fault, Braife, that the hound was slain.’

Forgive me, my ghostly friend, for this departure from the tale, but it has relevance.